Fight or Flight
by Lillibella
Summary: I was pretty, and that made me a bigger target for a drunken boxer." Holmes saves a woman from a run in with a drunk, and mystery ensues.
1. At the Thames

**1**

Bartending wasn't exactly fun, but it was work, and it made money. The boxing ring next to the Thames river was dirty, smelled like beer and smoke, and was full of half-drunk men gambling their life savings away. My family was poor in the first place, but I never thought I would stoop so low as to serve beer to greasy, fight-crazy men just so they could get drunk. The only good thing about it was the actual boxing. I loved watching the two men analyzing each other, and then trying to defeat them by the weaknesses they see. One night, as I cleaned glass beer mugs, I was enraptured by the match. There was a large, hulking brute swinging crazy haymakers at his opponent. The unfortunate man facing him was about a head shorter than this giant, had wild black curls almost springing out of his head, and was being beat up mercilessly. Poor guy. Maybe I could give him a drink on the house after. He was also quite handsome... Suddenly the man dropped down, ducking a punch, and slid through the large man's legs and knocked them out from under him. In a flash, he kicked the man's ribs with force, cracking some, stepped on both ankles, an observed weak point, and grabbed him by the throat. The giant, now unable to fight back was then thrown across the ring by a heel kick in the diaphragm. Amazing. The man who had just had no chance of losing was unconscious on the ground. The ring was silent. The curly-haired boxer dusted off his hands and walked over to the corner of the bar. He didn't ask for anything, so I let him keep to himself. I was still in shock from the match. The announcer started back up, another round starting. The crowd blinked back into reality and started cheering again.

Just then a man sat down in front of me, breaking me out of my reverie.

"I'll have a pint, please, Miss," he asked. I put on my serving smile.

"Coming right up,"

The man stared at me with a lopsided grin. I gave him a quick smile back, but quickly went back to cleaning the mugs. I was getting uncomfortable now. I flipped back a black curl. My hair was up, but some strands always seemed to escape the messy bun piled on top on my head.

"Hey Lady! You look pretty fine tonight, eh?" He laughed and slammed his empty mug on the counter. I swallowed audibly. This was his fourth glass. I wanted to tell him to stop drinking and go home, but I couldn't refuse customers, especially boxers...

Tonight was a cold one. The wind blowing off of the Thames was slow, but chilling. I suddenly resented being so poor I could only afford to be a bartender, and even then I didn't have enough change to pay to take a carriage home.

I suddenly heard footsteps behind me. I turned around. There was the man who rudely commented on my looks in the bar.

"Hey Miss! Wait up for me, will ya?" he hollered. He started to run, weaving left and right on the boardwalk. I pulled my wrap closer to me and started walking quicker. So did the man. I started to run until I heard his footsteps disappear down an alleyway. I looked behind me to make sure he was gone. There was no one in sight. I sighed in relief and turned back around, only the gasp when the man appeared out of a cranny between two buildings. He came so close up in front of me that I could smell his foul, alcohol tainted breath. He grinned at me with yellow teeth.

"You cold, Miss? Here, I'll keep you warm," he said with a hint of menace. He grabbed my wrap and threw it into the water beside him. It soon got heavy and sunk like a rock. He then forced his arms around me and held me close to him.

"Get off me, you animal!" I shouted and squirmed. His grip was strong. He slowly traced his fingers down my arm, my dress sleeve going down with it. With a flash of horror I realized what he was doing. I beat his chest and pulled my sleeve back up when he stumbled backwards. I pulled up my skirts and ran. The man soon caught up to me, grabbing my arm. I tried to yank myself free, but he held on tight. I screamed and thrashed, but to no avail. He burrowed his head into my hair and breathed in. I nearly fainted. Suddenly, he was off me and on the ground. A man held his hands behind his back. It was the amazing boxer I had admired earlier! While the terrible man wrestled in his grip, the boxer looked up to me. His deep brown eyes sparkled in the moonlight as he scanned me up and down for damages. I probably looked like a train wreck. I felt like one, too. My hair was dishevelled, my dress was torn, and I was breathing like I had just run a five mile race, full sprint. I was frozen to the spot. In a second, the boxer had bound the man's feet and wrists. He slowly approached me. I put up no fight.

"Are you alright?" He asked me. His voice was strangely comforting... I suddenly broke down, my knees buckled and tears streamed down my face. He was by me in a flash.

"Hush," he told me and stroked my hair. I leaned against my saviour, this man I did not know, and sobbed into his coat. As I would not be going anywhere anytime soon, he scooped me up in his arms like a bride and carried me down the street.


	2. Getting Somewhere

**1**

We arrived at an old building on Baker Street. A woman opened the door. She gasped at the sight of me.

"Mrs. Hudson, would you mind bringing up a pot of tea? Thank you," the man said as the woman called Mrs. Hudson nodded. He lifted me up the stairs with ease, as if he did this on a regular basis. He used his foot to rap on a door. A bleary-eyed man answered. He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes. He had clearly been asleep.

"Holmes, where the devil were you? When you asked me to watch your apartment, I didn't know you would be out 'till one o'clock in the morni-" He cut off when he noticed me, still crying, in the boxer's arms. He raised his eyebrows and held open the door wider so we could enter.

"What happened? Who is she?" the man asked while the boxer put me down in a chair.

"She is the bartender at the boxing ring I go to. A man has just very rudely confronted her on the boardwalk," he explained, giving the other man a look. The man closed his eyes.

"Good God..." he mumbled.

"She's in shock, as you can probably see," the boxer said lightly, still with a hand on my shoulder. I sniffed, dried my eyes, and tried to pull myself together. I spoke my first words since the incident shakily.

"I am s-so sorry, gentlemen, I just..." I started. The boxer put a finger to his lips.

"It's quite alright, Miss. You have just been through something no woman should." He was right. I shivered at the thought of that horrid man, trying to pull off my dress... The boxer noticed. He took off his coat and placed it over me. It was only when the warmth hit me that I noticed I was freezing. The drunk had thrown my wrap into the Thames.

"Watson, would you mind doing a little check over? To make sure she's alright," the boxer asked the man called Watson. He nodded and approached me.

"Now, don't be frightened, I am a doctor," he assured me, and I relaxed. He raised his index finger and moved it back and forth and in circles. I did my best to follow it with my eyes. He then checked my neck, legs and arm. When he got to my right arm, he lifted my sleeve to find five, circle bruises. Four fingers and a thumb. I stared at my arm like it wasn't attached to my body. Watson looked up at me.

"Is this where he grabbed you?"

I nodded. He frowned. He went and got a washcloth and soaked it in water. He then placed it on my neck. I winced at the cold.

"It helps calm the nerves," he told me. I definitely needed it. My nerves were pretty frayed at the moment.

The boxer sat in another chair by the window. He steepled his fingers.

"We are all at a loss here. You don't know our names, and we don't know yours," he said. I guessed this was his more polite way of asking who the heck I was.

"Oh, how rude of me. My name is Emily Black," I introduced myself. The boxer smiled.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss. Black. Detective Sherlock Holmes at your service."

Oh.

I had just made a complete fool of myself in front of the world's greatest detective. I felt like an idiot.

"And I'm Dr. John Watson," the doctor introduced himself. We shook hands. I turned back to Holmes.

"Thank you so much for...for what you did on the boardwalk. I don't want to think about what would have happened if you hadn't been there..." I trailed off. Holmes smiled.

"You are very welcome. Now, where do you live?" I looked at him sheepishly.

"Forty-Nine Lichen Street. Mr. and Mrs. Wellington's residence." I was ashamed to not have a place for myself. Then again, neither did the great Sherlock Holmes...

"Let's see if we can get you there, shall we?" he said, standing up. I tried to do the same, but my knees buckled I collapsed back into the chair. I tried once again, and again, failed miserably. I looked up to see Holmes holding back laughter. I looked back down, embarrassed. Watson swatted Holmes in the arm with his cane.

"I cannot seem to stand up." I said this with as much dignity as I possibly could, whist still looking down. Holmes clapped his hands together.

"Well, I guess it seems you won't be going anywhere tonight. You can sleep here. You live by yourself, yes?" he asked nonchalantly. I looked at him curiously.

"Yes. How did you know?"

"No wedding ring. You look tired. No alarm-clock-mother. Take no offense, but you seem a little young to have a child," he explained. I smiled.

"Oh right. Detective. I don't want to take your room, though. Where will you sleep?"

"It's no problem. I can sleep at Watson's house!" Watson groaned and looked at him. Holmes stared back.

"Do you have a problem with this, old boy? We've slept in the same room many a time before." Watson sighed, exasperated.

"Yes, but you just volunteered _yourself _to sleep at _my house!" _He paused, thought for a moment, and suddenly laughed out loud.

"Alright," he said, still chuckling, "but _you _have to explain to Mary." He grinned at Holmes, who had now turned an odd shade of grey, grabbed his hat and tipped it to me.

"Good night, Miss Black," he said cheerily and strode out the door. Holmes was stunned. He looked to me.

"Alright. Have a good night's rest. I'll be back here at about eight-thirty tomorrow morning," he said quickly, putting on another jacket. As he left, he called down the hall,

"But she's your wife!"

***

It was about three in the morning. I still couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes I pictured that gruesome man on the boardwalk. I glanced over at the table beside me. There were a couple of books stacked on top of each other. I picked one up. It was titled _A Study in Scarlet_, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It looked interesting. I read the first few pages, and it suddenly dawned on me that this was about Holmes and Watson! The mystery was exciting, so I kept reading. I had read the first seven chapters before I finally fell asleep.


	3. Home

**Hey! Sorry it took me so long to update! And don't worry, the plot will come shortly! Please please please review. It will make me happy and get me to update faster... Enjoy!

* * *

**

3

That was how Sherlock Holmes found me at eight thirty sharp that next morning. Asleep in his chair, still in my torn, dark green dress, hair let down, no stockings or shoes on, with _A Study in Scarlet _resting on my lap. I was deeply absorbed in my dream, so I did not hear him enter. I was in his doorway sobbing and crying in his arms. Even I did not know why. I was just about to find out, when...

"Miss. Black? Emily?"

I jolted awake. I breathed in audibly and sharply when I saw him standing in the middle of the room, staring at me.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes! I'm so sorry, I'm not decent!" I leaped up, finding myself able to walk again, and scrambled around to the back of the chair, desperately trying to pull on my stockings as fast as I could. He chuckled.

"It is quite alright, Miss Black, I had seen women's feet before," he assured me as I came out from behind the chair, "and there's no need to call me 'Mister'. Just Holmes will do nicely." I nodded.

"Alright, Holmes. Feel free to call me just plain Emily," I responded. I looked at him, more observant then I was last night. He looked quite dishevelled. His hairs still sprang out of his head, I would say even messier after a night's sleep. His clothes were clean, but looked as though he had fought with them before he put them on. His room was a wreck. It looked like a tornado had ripped through it, scattering papers, books, and various experimental instruments. I hoped it wasn't me who put it in this state, but I had a feeling it was like this all the time.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked me, seeing me observe his living area and trying to change my subject of thought.

"Well yes, when I did actually sleep," I joked truthfully. He laughed.

"Well then, I suppose I should be getting you home," he said reaching for the doorknob. I creased my eyebrows.

"You don't have to take me, Holmes, I can figure out my way home," I said. I was inconveniencing him. He seemed to read my thoughts, and shook his head.

"I would like to come with you in case of another run-in," he said like his intentions were very obvious. I smirked.

"At eight-thirty in the morning?" I teased. He cleared his throat and looked down. One tiny little flaw in his 'flawless' logic... I held out my arm.

"Thank you, Holmes. I would love to have your protection and company," I said, smiling. He looked up, took my arm, and smiled in return.

***

Holmes really was quite handsome. He walked briskly, with his chin up and a look on his face that read, 'I dare you to try to harm us right now'. We talked lightly, about nothing in particular. He seemed to be guiding me more than me him. I told him about my older sister, Maryanne, and my day job at the Crown and Sceptre pub. I learned a whole lot of nothing in return.

Mrs. Wellington answered the door, and with a cry of relief, took me into her arms. The elderly lady was probably scared to death by my absence.

"Oh, my dear! We were worried sick! A little longer and we would have notified the police! Don't ever do that to us again!" she scolded me, but with happiness and relief in her voice. I smiled and pulled out of what seemed like the never-ending embrace.

"I'm fine. And I was with the police. Sort of." She looked at me, puzzled. I stepped back and grabbed the coat of a retreating Holmes.

"Mrs. Dorothy Wellington, this is detective Sherlock Holmes. The one you read about in the newspapers," I explained. Holmes took off his hat and bowed.

"Please to meet you, Madam," he said politely. Mrs. Wellington smiled, charmed.

"Thank you very much for returning Emily to us. We will hear more of you in the future, I presume?" I shot her a glare. She smiled mischievously back at me.

"Maybe. Good day, Miss Black," he said with a smile and a twinkle in his eye. He stepped down from the doorway and started his walk back to Baker Street. Mrs. Wellington closed the door and raised her eyebrows.

"I've got many questions for you, young lady," she told me.

"Start with one," I responded.

"What did you get into that brought you into the company of Detective Holmes, hmm?" she quizzed. I was reluctant to tell her. I tried to explain in as little detail as possible. By the end, Mrs. Wellington was creasing her eyebrows in sympathy.

"Oh, honey! That must have been so terrible... Wait, if he took you home, where did you sleep?" I looked down sheepishly.

"Okay, don't take this the wrong way: At his apartment. He went and slept at a friend's house. I slept in his chair."

"Ah."

"I've got a question for you, now," I changed the subject, "Where's Mr. Wellington?"

"Arthur? He is actually out looking for you! Ironic, isn't it? That you should come home while he's out looking for you..." she trailed off, and gave me one of her 'all-knowing' looks.

"That detective...He was quite handsome, was he not?" she said, holding back laughter. I shot her another glare, but then smiled, as in agreement. The door suddenly opened and I looked back. Arthur Wellington stepped through the doorway, looking distraught.

"I'm sorry, Dorothy, I can't find her! I have no idea where she could be-" He stopped when he saw me, smiling at him on the sofa. A large grin spread across his face.

"Emily! No wonder I couldn't find you! When did you get home? How long have you been here? Where were you? What happened?" I laughed as he bombarded me with questions.

"It's a long story. Dorothy will tell you. For now, I've got to get to work. They'll understand if I explain my situation," I said, standing up. Dorothy tutted at me.

"Maybe you should stay home today, honey. You've had a long night," she suggested. I smiled.

"I've got to pay the rent. _You're _rent, I might add," I said, and went upstairs to change my torn dress to a new, pastel orange one. I wore long sleeves, to hide my bruises. I tied my hair up in a bun on top of my head, cleaned my face, and put on my shoes. I raced down the stairs, grabbed a coat, and scrambled out the door with, "Goodbye, Dorothy! Bye, Arthur!" called over my shoulder. The entire way to the Crown and Sceptre, I found myself thinking about Holmes.


	4. Sisters, Dresses and Stories

**Hey Readers! Thanks for the great reviews! Don't kill me, the plot will start soon. Next chapter, I promise. This is just more back ground info. Enjoy and review!**

* * *

I found myself daydreaming more than usual. I had dropped a tray or two at the Crown and Sceptre, and over the two weeks after my ordeal I realized how utter and completely_ boring _my life was. It was the same routine, over and over and over again... And, being honest, Holmes was always on my mind...

One day, after my shift at the Crown, I went to visit my sister Maryanne. She opened the door and her face lit up when she saw me. Maryanne was beautiful. She had black curls, like me, but her eyes were a dark shade of brown, like our father's. I took after my mother in general. Her hair, her bright green eyes, her heart shaped face and soft features. I also got her tendency to blush...

"Well, Em! Surprise surprise! Come on in! What can I do for you?" she asked. I stepped in her house. She was so lucky. She had inherited our father's artistic ability. She was now a successful oil and watercolour painter, so she got to buy her own house. I got mother's musical side, though a bartender and waitress doesn't get very many chances to sing and play instruments.

"Actually two reasons. One, I need to borrow a dress for church tomorrow," I stated. We normally borrowed each other's clothes when needed. My good green dress was torn by the river, and I needed a nice one for church. Her eyes sparkled and she smiled.

"Oh, Em, I have the perfect one! I was sorting through my closet the other day. Now, let me just go and find it. Make yourself comfortable," she called back to me, pulling her skirts up and running up the stairs to her bedroom. I sat down on a brown, comfy chair in her sitting room. _Lovable as she is, she is the most forgetful, ditzy artist I have ever met in my life, _I thought with a smile, _but she knows I'm not as well off as she is, and she helps me. _Maryanne came back in with a cream-coloured dress, with a collar that went around my shoulders, false pearls around the waist, and a gathering of ruffles on the back of the skirt. I raised my eyebrows in surprise.

"Oh, May! Where did you ever get such a beautiful thing?"

"In Twickenham, just outside of London. There is a beautiful dress shop in the city. I must take you to it sometime," she offered.

"That would be wonderful! But, I have come for another reason as well," I said, in a much more serious tone. The mirth in Maryanne's dark eyes faded quickly.

"What's the matter?"

I recounted my story of my encounter with the drunken man by the Thames. By the end, tears were streaming down her face. She quickly embraced me when I had finished.

"Oh, Emily! Oh, my dear Emily! How could this have happened to you? Out of all the people in London, he had to attempt to violate _you? _I should have been with you, I should have done something... Why didn't you tell me about this earlier?" Leave it to Maryanne to blame herself on something she wasn't even there to witness.

"I was still sort of getting over it myself... Anyway, Maryanne, this wasn't your fault! It was my work shift! You wouldn't have been there in the first place. And that wasn't my only point of the story," I said, and then suddenly blushed as I realized I had said too much. Maryanne finished her hug and looked at me strangely, her hands still on my shoulders. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the red spread over my cheeks.

"What happened?"

"Okay, have you ever heard of the detective Sherlock Holmes?" Maryanne snorted.

"Heard of him? He's all over the papers all the time. He's great at his work. Why?"

"Well, he was boxing at the ring I work at, and...well, he sort of...saved me." Maryanne looked at me in surprise and wonder, but said nothing, so I continued.

"He fought off the man, and took me, the sobbing wreck, back to his room. He went to sleep at his friend's house, while I slept there that night. He walked me home the next morning and, well, I can't get him out of my head!" That came out wrong. A sly smile spread over Maryanne's face.

"Hmm, is my little Emily in love with the great detective?" she teased. I shook my head.

"No, no, gosh no! It's just, I felt like there was some sort of connection. Like, something's going to happen to make us meet again. Somewhere, somehow, we're going to meet up again."


	5. All The Good Has Left Us

**Hey! Here comes the plot, just like I promised! Okay, you know what would make me reeeeeeally happy? If I got more reviews. I've got, like, five million story alerts (thanks you guys!) but only nine reviews! More reviews would be great. Thank you to all who read, and enjoy!**

**~Lillibella**

* * *

**5**

"...May the Lord guide you in all your steps this coming week. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen." The words of my priest were echoed by a hundred 'Amen's' and then the slam of kneeling stands as we all got up to leave. I was wearing Maryanne's dress, which I was going to give back to her when we lunched today after church. It was funny, though. I didn't see her come in or get up to leave... I shrugged. She must have left early to get ready.

I made my way through the crowd of people gathering to leave and out the door. I felt like a small girl again, leaving church to go home, where Mother and Maryanne would make my favourite lunch, a tuna-fish sandwich with crisps and lemon cakes with cream for dessert. That what they were going to make today...

But then I remembered. There was no 'they' anymore. Only Maryanne and I would be having Sunday lunch. My parents were gone...

I snapped out of my reverie as I almost collided with a slick haired man walking in the opposite direction.

"Sorry, sorry, really sorry sir," I hastily apologized. He smiled.

"Don't worry. Nothing broke, and no one died, so it's all okay," he joked, and I laughed. "Good-day, Ma'am."

"Good-day," I replied, and continued my journey.

I reached Maryanne's house a couple of minutes later. I had made sure not to spill anything on this dress (unlike the unfortunate white-and-light-blue work dress that now had a red-wine stain the size of an apple on its skirt) and I planned to show Maryanne. I rapped on her door and stood back. Hmm. No answer. I tried again. Same outcome. I tried the door. That was strange, the door was unlocked. That was really unlike Maryanne. I stepped inside, and immediately I was frightened. There was no noise coming from the kitchen, no smells of busy baking, no attempts at singing a tune...only silence and darkness greeted me at Maryanne's house.

I checked all of the downstairs rooms, but Maryanne was nowhere to be found.

"May? Maryanne? Maryanne Black, it's Emily. If this is a joke, it's NOT FUNNY. MARYANNE?" My cries became more frantic as I searched the upstairs. I finally came to her bedroom, and I was overwhelmed with a feeling of dread. This was the only room I hadn't checked. I slowly opened the door, and screamed, almost falling to the ground.

There was Maryanne, on the floor, with a knife stuck in her chest. Her dark eyes, once bright with life, now stared at me, dull and blank. There was a piece of paper next to her. I walked unsteadily toward it and picked it up. The note was with paper from her own desk. It had the aroma of the fragrant vanilla perfume she used, yet it was not her handwriting. It was plain, straight, and boxy, done in black ink. It read:

I TOLD HER SHE COULDN'T RUN FROM ME.

I PROMISED HER SHE COULDN'T ESCAPE ME.

SHE TRIED.

I KEPT MY PROMISE.

I stared blankly at the note, at first not comprehending. It slowly dawned on me. My sister, my beautiful Maryanne, had been murdered.

I was suddenly running, out of the house, into the street, tears clouding my vision. I could have taken Haven Street to get to the police station, but I went in the opposite direction. I ended up on Baker Street. I searched my memory quickly for which house it was. I decided on 221B. I raced up the steps and banged on the door. Mrs. Hudson opened the door with I tired expression.

"No solicitors. It's Sund- Oh, my dear! He's in his room." She seemed to read my mind. I raced up the stairs and banged on his door. Holmes opened the door and a shocked look came over his face.

"Miss Black! What in the world-" He cut off when I threw myself at him, just wanting comfort.

"M-Maryanne! S-s-she's dead!" I sobbed. He froze, then slowly pried me from him. He looked me in the eye.

"What?" he said quietly. I tried to calm myself down, but I couldn't get a handle on myself. He helped me over to a chair, and then sat down in his.

"What exactly happened, Miss Black?" he asked delicately. I tried to speak between sobs and hiccoughs.

"We were...going to have lunch...after church...and...I went to her house...she wasn't answering and...her door was unlocked... I checked her bedroom...and she was there...with a...a knife in her chest..." When I reached this part I could not speak anymore. I remembered I was still clutching the note. I gave it to Holmes with shaking hands. He read it over quickly, maybe twice or thrice. He looked up to me.

"MRS. HUDSON!" he bellowed, not breaking eye contact. I heard a footsteps coming up the stairs, and then Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway. He looked over to her.

"Telegram Watson. Tell him Emily Black is here, and it's an emergency." Mrs. Hudson nodded.

"Right away, Mr. Holmes." She quickly left, and I heard a distant clicking of buttons. Holmes turned back to me. He gazed at me, and for a few moments, everything was silent.

"I'm very sorry, Miss Black. I heard how close you two were. I'm sorry it had to happen that way," she consoled me. I nodded.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I...I think I would just like to be alone for a moment," I said. He nodded.

"Of course." He stood up and left the room, closing the door behind him.

I curled up in the chair, closed my eyes, and cried while I thought of Maryanne.


	6. Emotional Turmoil

**Hey everyone! **

**First order of business: TO APOLOGIZE. I literally haven't updated in a year. A whole year, that is just sad. I lost a concrete idea of where the story was going, but I've got it again, so I'll try to update more frequently.**

**Second: Thank you to ALL who reviewed, favourited, alerted! I gush every single time I read those, thank you thank you, thank you! If I even deserve it after all this time, please review!**

**Third: ENJOY!**

**~Lillibella**

* * *

"I have no idea as to whom this letter could be from."

"Are you sure?"

I hesitated. Was I sure? I still sat in Holmes chair. Watson had arrived. Holmes was taking great care in choosing his words. I supposed this was because on all accounts of our meeting, I had burst into tears, though for good reason.

"No. No I am not."

Holmes exhaled slowly through his nose. He brought his hands together and steepled them, looking at the floor. I could almost see facts flicker in his mind, all catalogued with the smallest twitch of the head. He was so still that I flinched when he turned his gaze back on me.

"I shall have to see the body."

"Her body."

"Pardon?" Holmes eyebrows raised.

"You shall have to see her body. Maryanne's." I had corrected him without thinking. I did not mean to sound rude, but I could not hear my sister become objectified like that. Holmes nodded.

"Of course." Holmes rose from his stool, grabbing his jacket and hat. I slowly stood up as well. Watson, who had been very quiet through this time, cleared his throat.

"We also need to inform the police. There has been a murder of an innocent young woman, they should at least be clued in," he said, explaining as Holmes gave him a pleading look. The latter set his jaw, but complied with a simple nod.

"What do you think, Watson? Would Mary approve of you accompanying Miss Black and myself, as you are a doctor, and there is need of a post-mortem?" I draw another sharp breath. I refused to let my emotions get the better of me. Holmes and Watson had already seen my weak, vulnerable side, twice even. This was not my regular nature, and I was eager to make myself known as someone greater than a helpless woman.

"I think in this case, I would be violating my oath if I did not," Watson replied, always the gentleman. He also found his hat and coat, and made his way to the door.

Watson haled a carriage, and I told the driver our destination. The carriage bumped along, as we sat in silence. I sat straight-backed and stiff. My thoughts were consumed with the raw fear gathering in my stomach as we neared the house. The telegram to one Inspector Lestrade had obviously not reached him yet; There was no sign of the police. Holmes chose to comment on this, saying something to do with incompetence and priorities. I wasn't really listening. My gaze was fixed on my shoes. Holmes knelt by the door and began to unfold what looked like a lock-pick s treasure case.

"Don't bother with that, the door is unlocked," I told him. He glanced behind at me, looking slightly put out, perhaps because he did not get to use his tools, sniffed, and stood again. He pushed open the door with ease and walked inside. Meanwhile, I stayed rooted to the spot. My forehead was breaking out into a thin film of sweat, my hands clenched. I suddenly felt something warm touch lightly on my arm, and I turned to see Watson at my side, ready to support me. I gave him a wan smile that I know did not reach my eyes, and we ventured inside.

We followed Holmes up the stairs to Maryanne's bedroom. I hesitated as I stepped over the threshold, but entered with my chin up. Immediately my eyes were drawn to the beautiful figure strewn before us on the floor, the shine of the knife through her bloody clothing. I tried to focus on the room around me while Watson and Holmes moved to examine the body. Her bed was made nicely. The windows and curtains were drawn tightly shut. Her desk was littered with papers and sketches, typical for an artist. I saw a letter from me, a letter from the bank, a letter from...wait, what? I walked slowly towards the desk, my heart in my throat. The stationary was thick, the plain sort one could buy at any store. But the writing... I picked up the letter. I read it over, my hands surprisingly steady.

"Holmes...Doctor...I found something."

Holmes was at once standing up and beside me. He took the letter from me, Watson reading over his shoulder.

I SAW YOU KISSING HIM YESTERDAY.

I AM UPSET WITH YOU. I TOLD YOU TO STAY AWAY FROM HIM.

THIS IS THE LAST TIME I WILL TELL YOU, MARYANNE.

BE WITH ME.

"It's the same writing," I said, my voice wavering slightly. I was so confused. Nothing was making sense. Who was writing to my sister? Who did she kiss? Why was this happening?

"It is. No used a straight edge and work pencil, bold lines, no curve. They didn't want to be recognized. Was there an envelope?" Holmes inquired, his eyes an inch away from the letter.

"No, it was resting on the desk," I replied. I had a sudden thought. The letter said that _'this was the last time.'_ The note beside Maryanne said that whoever it was had _'promised her.'_

"There have to be more letters," I declared, stooping down, "at least another one. Look, it mentions previous...contact."

The drawers of the desk were filled with more art, loose paintbrushes and the like. I tried to sift through, but everything seemed superfluous. Then I reached the bottom drawer. It was larger than the rest. I took a breath, and opened it. There, resting side by side, was a box. A letter box. I had one at home, for correspondence I wanted to keep. I quickly removed it and gave it to Holmes, who studied it for a moment.

"This is exactly-" he began, but was stopped by a thunder of boots and a muffled hum of voices downstairs. Holmes and Watson glanced at each other.

"Lestrade," they said in unison. I rose from the floor, suddenly very jumpy. I had never seen more than three people in my sister's house, and now there was an entire police team trundling about on the ground floor and a detective and a doctor on the second. Holmes tucked the box under his arm and exited the room. I made to follow him, but I turned back one last time, and moved to my sister s side. How simple and mundane our last meeting was. If only I had known, I would have at least tried to keep the conversation meaningful. It dawned on me that I was so self-absorbed that I hadn t asked her what was going on in her life, if there was anything wrong. My eyes stung.

"Farewell, my darling. Say hello to mum and dad for me," I whispered in her ear, kissed her forehead, and left. In the hall, Watson approached me and took my hands in his.

"Miss Black, are you alright?"

No. No, I was not alright. Maryanne Black was dead. Someone had killed her.

"I'm fine, thank you Doctor."

As we went to meet with the police, the words of the second letter filled my mind. Be with me. A shudder passed through me. Who was this man, jealous enough to kill?


End file.
